


I'm an army doctor and I wake the dead

by wordsthatkeepyouhome



Category: Pushing Daisies, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Crossover, M/M, i don't know which one to use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-05
Updated: 2012-06-05
Packaged: 2017-11-06 21:48:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/423627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordsthatkeepyouhome/pseuds/wordsthatkeepyouhome
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson is 37 years, 12 weeks, 3 days and 8 hours old. He is an army doctor, but not just any army doctor. John can touch dead things and bring them back to life. First touch, life. Second touch, dead… forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm an army doctor and I wake the dead

**Author's Note:**

> Crossover with Pushing Daisies in the sense that John has Ned's abilities. So I guess this is an AU? Follows ASiP, TGG, ASiB and Reichenbach.

John Watson is 37 years, 12 weeks, 3 days and 8 hours old. He is an army doctor, but not just any army doctor. John can touch dead things and bring them back to life. First touch, life. Second touch, dead... forever. He has used this gift often, almost daily, during the war. He sees his comrades die from bullets and grenades. Dead amidst the noises and explosions. Dead before they hit the ground, their last words dying on their lips. John helps. He gives them sixty more seconds to talk, to say anything and everything. Often, John listens to them confess words of love, as well as guilt, passing on their hopes or begging for forgiveness. He promises to deliver each and every word before he touches them again, dead once more.

* * *

John doesn't expect it when the bullet burrows into his shoulder. The pain of that tiny metal thing as it tore at his muscles and vessels drives him to the brink and he's screaming. He's screaming loudly and his hand clutches at his shoulder trying desperately, in vain, to stop the bleeding. No one hears him; no one seems to see him. The battlefield is alive and heated, swallowing everything with dust, dirt and angry outbursts of gunfire. It is alive as the blood of dead soldiers seep into the ground, as their souls slip out of their bodies. It is almost impossible to tell the live ones from the dead; there are so many dead. Sometimes to keep from losing one's mind from the horrors and terror of war, one stops seeing, stops looking at the corpses scattered on the terrain. There is no time to grieve in the heat of battle; there is only the enemy, the next kill and staying alive. John is a soldier and he knows this. But he is also a doctor and it is his job to look, to see, to find and to differentiate the living from the dead. It is  _ **his**_  job and John is  _ **scared**_ , as his hand slowly grows numb from the loss of blood, as his blood keeps spilling out and giving life to the battle ground at the cost of his own, he is scared no one will find  _ **him**_. John believes for a moment that he will die and wonders if he can bring himself back to life. Will his gift save him? Or will it die along with him? John doesn't know, but he makes sure his hand is touching the skin on his shoulder,  _ **just in case**_ , and vaguely pictures a life where he lives inside a hazmat suit. He considers whether that kind of life would be worth living, but he shakes off the thought before it could root itself because John is scared of the answer. Instead, he thinks of all the dying messages and last words his comrades have entrusted to him and he is sad that they may die with him. John thinks, desperately  _ **screams**_  a single thought inside his mind, as the blackness at the edges of his consciousness take hold and consume him whole.  _Please, God, let me_ _ **live**_ _._

* * *

John remembers the faint shadow of faces crowding over him. First of soldiers, then of doctors. He hears a faint humming of a helicopter in the background and wonders how and when he was found and where he was taken. He remembers earsplitting and feral cries which sounded like they came from a wounded animal and wonders whether it was all in his head or it was really happening. He remembers thinking someone should just put it out of its misery because it was in pain, in  _ **so much**_  pain and the cries grow louder and louder. John remembers the exact second he realized that it was him who was making the sounds.

* * *

John lives but is dismissed from active duty. He returns to London with a limp and an intermittent tremor in his left hand, stoically resigned to his fate, but it hasn't completely hit him yet. He still has a mission. For the first few months, he delivers his comrades' last words and fulfills their last requests. He completes everything they had asked him to do in those precious sixty seconds John had given them. He goes from house to house, from city to city. He knows he could probably send a letter to all of these people and be done, but he doesn't trust words on a paper to convey the depth of feeling these men had felt in their last minute on Earth. But there is another reason. John doesn't want it to end. He wants a purpose. The people in the army believe him to be useless and unfit to be a soldier and John wants more than anything to shout a myriad of profanities at them and prove them wrong. He is not useless. He can still do  _ **this**_. And so he continues delivering each message personally and hugs them when they start crying. It is not part of the message, but John thinks it is appropriate. Then he goes home, crosses another name from the list and plans his next delivery. Six months later, he runs out of names.

* * *

John feels so useless and he misses the war. He doesn't tell his therapist. She thinks he should write a blog about his life but what good will that do? Nothing happens to John, absolutely nothing.

He runs into an old friend Mike Stamford one day and it changes his life forever.

* * *

John thinks Sherlock Holmes is a mad man. But for some reason, he doesn't turn and run away. Is it the promise of a nice flat that draws him? Or something else entirely? Sherlock seems to just know things. Within the first few minutes of meeting each other, Sherlock knows John is an army doctor who's been dismissed because of an injury. He knows about Harry and her being an alcoholic and leaving Clara. He also knows about John's therapist and his psychosomatic limp. Sherlock fires off one fact after another, positively crackling with electricity and energy and John's heart races. But Sherlock misses a couple of things. That Harry is John's  _ **sister**_ and that John has a unique gift. He doesn't tell Sherlock about the latter.

Apparently, Sherlock Holmes is a consulting detective, the only one in the world because he invented the job. Scotland Yard consults  _ **him**_. John doesn't believe him at first, because he has never known the police to consult amateurs. Sherlock, indignant at his comment, tells John how he came to know what he knew about him from his haircut, the way he held himself, his tan line, his phone and the tiny scratches on it. John finds it all so extraordinary, but still thinks Sherlock is mad. But he realizes he doesn't mind at all.

Sherlock invites him to the crime scene and John says yes without hesitation. But the minute they arrive there, he falters. "Would it be better if I waited here?" he asks. He thinks it was stupid of him to go to a place where an actual dead body could be found. What if he touches it accidently? How is he supposed to explain how he can touch dead things and bring them back to life? John resolves to stay away from the body at all costs. But Sherlock Holmes has other plans and John finds himself kneeling close to the lady dressed in pink lying in the middle of the floor. He smells for alcohol, checks her fingers. He is wearing gloves so nothing unexpected happens. John knows he can figure out who the murderer is in under a minute, but it is rather more exciting to see Sherlock do it. He deduces the woman is unhappily married and a serial adulterer who came from Cardiff to stay in London for a day or so. It is as if the dead talk to him, not in the same way as they talk to John, but still. He thinks it is all so fantastic and brilliant and he says so, watching Sherlock's surprised expression every time he does. John realizes that Sherlock doesn't get compliments often; in fact, Sherlock had told John that usually people tell him to piss off whenever he deduces them. John considers remedying that, and maybe, just maybe, this would be his new mission.

* * *

Life with Sherlock Holmes is definitely not boring. Every day John has to maneuver through obstacles of severed heads and limbs hidden in unexpected places. He accidentally touches a finger in the butter once and it twitches. John hastily touches it again before Sherlock notices, breathing a sigh of relief and yelling at Sherlock again to stop putting dead body parts in food. John knows it is pointless to say anything and others would probably have drawn the line at this point, but he finds that he really loves life with Sherlock and all the adventures and 'domestic' tiffs that come with it. John finds that he particularly enjoys saving Sherlock's life and telling him he's  _ **amazing**_ ,  _ **brilliant**_  and  _ **fantastic**_.

* * *

John has always thought of Sherlock as a hero, because honestly, who wouldn't? But all that changes when Jim Moriarty came to play. He is the complete opposite of Sherlock, a consulting criminal. And for one dark second, John thinks the two would make quite a perfect pair. John realizes for the first time how Sherlock is capable of becoming exactly like Moriarty and he tries desperately to make Sherlock  _ **care**_. But he doesn't.  _Caring won't help save them. Caring is a mistake. There is only the game and everything is transport._ This is not Sherlock Holmes, John refuses to believe it. He looks at the TV screen displaying the ruined apartment where Moriarty's bomb had detonated and he sees the report of twelve dead. John wishes he could go there and use his gift. To give them one more minute of life. They don't deserve to die like that. So unexpectedly, so violently. John's mind flashes back to the war and he lowers his head, trying to find some semblance of order or reason. _This shouldn't be happening here_ , he thinks through gritted teeth. And for a brief moment, John wonders and finally considers what he has gotten himself into by living with Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

John is captured and a bomb is strapped to his chest, but somehow he thinks it was all worth it. Because, finally, _ **finally**_ , he got Sherlock Holmes to care.

* * *

A woman,  _ **the**_  woman, comes into their lives and leaves abruptly.  _Found dead._ John listens to Sherlock play the violin, watches him standing by the window and thinks that he may never be able to understand the depth of this man. Although, more than anything, he wishes he'd be given that chance. He realizes he knows nothing of his past relationships, boyfriends or girlfriends. Has Sherlock Holmes ever been in love? He finds his lack of knowledge about his friend terribly unsettling. It is at that point that John considers telling Sherlock about his gift. Maybe give him one more minute with Irene Adler, give him closure. He wrestles with the ethics in his head. Sherlock may want to keep her alive for more than a minute. But John can't do that, especially with her face bashed in.  _Too obvious_ , he thinks. And there is of course that other consequence. Someone else has to die in her place. It's a proximity thing and John cannot live with the guilt of causing an innocent's death. Consulting criminal or serial killers he can kill point blank without any remorse, but for this… he has no choice, no say in who gets to die. But a thought comes to him and it shakes him to the core. If it means Sherlock would stop being sad, John senses he'd do absolutely anything to make it happen. Turns out, he didn't have to.

* * *

John doesn't understand what's going on. Sherlock is on the roof and John hears his voice on the line and it sounds a lot like goodbye. He holds on to the phone like a lifeline. Maybe if he holds on tight enough, Sherlock wouldn't jump. He is reminded of the war and how his hand clutched his shoulder to stop the bleeding. With each word Sherlock says, he tells John he's a fake, that it was all a lie, a trick, John feels something being cut, being severed, being broken inside him, something tearing through his flesh and bone so John holds the phone, holds it tight, desperate to stop himself from bleeding out.  _Blood. So much blood._

"Goodbye, John."

"No, don't- Sherlock!"

He watches his friend jump, fall,  _ **fly**_. He sees the blood before Sherlock even hits the ground, hears the crunch of bones breaking before impact.  _No. No. NO._  John cannot accept it. He stands there, rooted on the spot, and he feels every inch of his skin tingle and shiver. He can bring him back to life.  _Yes._ Sherlock Holmes cannot die. Not like that. And Sherlock Holmes can't leave John. He's not allowed to. John refuses to return to the pitiful form of existence he had before he met Sherlock. Sherlock is a hero and he deserves to live. His life is far more precious than… anyone's. John runs through the reasons in his head and he starts running towards the crumpled body. But love, love is a much more powerful motivator. And seeing Sherlock jump, watching him die, imagining life without him, John is given the clarity he needs to realize how much he loves that infuriatingly difficult, childishly brilliant, extraordinary man. And John knows he will do anything, anything at all, to keep him alive.

He reaches the body and tries to break through the crowd surrounding it. They seem to want to keep him away, to stop him seeing, but John is having none of that. He pushes to the front, "He's my friend, please", and then he's there. He thinks of how to go about doing it, where to touch. John briefly considers kissing Sherlock under the pretense of giving him mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, just so he could at least kiss him once, to know how lips would feel against his own. Because if John brings him back to life, he would never be able to touch him again. He thinks against it. Doing it properly, the procedure requires clearing the airway, pinching his nose and holding his mouth open before pressing my mouth to his. More than one touch. First touch, life. Second, dead… forever. John decides on touching Sherlock's wrist, pretending to take his pulse. Nothing happens. John doesn't let go for fear he touches him more than once. It confuses him; his gift has never malfunctioned before. Sherlock is supposed to be alive by now, unless… Unless. He's not really dead. But there's no pulse, how can that be? John allows the men from the hospital to put Sherlock on a stretcher and take him in as he considers the answer to his question. Surely, he can figure it out. He's a doctor, they must have taught this in medical school.  _How to hide a pulse? And how did he survive the fall? Had there been a switch?_

John shakes his head at the seemingly unanswerable questions. He decides there was only one way to find out.  _Let's ask Sherlock Holmes._ He walks in the hospital and they direct him towards the morgue. He bumps into Molly just outside and she tries to stop him entering. "Please," he says softly and looks right at her. She crumbles at the intensity of his stare and lets him pass. A suspicion comes over him and John wonders if Molly is in on it. He can find the answers soon enough.

John walks in the room and leans against the door frame, just watching the still pale body of his friend on the slab.  _Not breathing_ , he notes.  _Maybe he took some drugs. Molly is definitely in on it then. He would have told her to not do the autopsy._  John circles Sherlock, almost predatorily.  _There must be an interval or a time limit until the drug wears off._ With his knowledge of medicinal herbs and plants, John hazards a guess at what Sherlock may have ingested and checks his watch. 7 minutes and 24 seconds.

John waits it out and he sees Molly trying to sneak a peek from the doors. She is nervous, John thinks and it's all he needs to affirm his conclusions. 56 seconds.

Time runs out and Sherlock still doesn't stir. He is aware of John's presence, can feel the palpable tension in the room. John is frustrated but not discouraged. "Why do you want me to believe you're dead? Why? I know you can hear me, Sherlock. I know you faked it. So stop it. Just stop. You're. Not. Dead. Okay? You're not." John moves from his spot and starts circling again, watching out for any signs of life. Sherlock is doing a great job playing dead; John has to give him that. "Fine," he says finally. "I guess I'll just have to shock you out of it then. Something unexpected."

"Greg is going out with your brother, did you know about that?" No reaction. "Hmm. Must have deduced it already then?"

"I kissed Anderson." Still no reaction. "Okay, that was an obvious lie. You're not an idiot, I'm sorry."

John continues pacing, a thoughtful expression on his face. And suddenly it clicks. "How about this then?"

He moves closer to the body. And from this distance, he can finally see the tiny flushes of pink and heat. Sherlock Holmes, no matter how extraordinary, cannot control biology. John runs a hand through Sherlock's curls. With the back of his hand, he caresses Sherlock's cheek. Sherlock feels the blush forming but he stays still. A knot of anxiety and excitement has formed in the back of his throat and he refuses to swallow it down.  _WHERE IS MOLLY?_ , he screams internally. And John laughs as if he had heard it.

"I love you, Sherlock Holmes. I am maddeningly in love you. Even though you drive me up the wall sometimes, even when you're insufferable, even when you call me an idiot. I love you still. And I think I love you more because of them. You're my Sherlock. And you're alive and I never want to lose you so please, for me, can you stop pretending to be dead?"

It takes all of Sherlock's control to not move. He feels John's breath on his face and he can picture how close he must be, can see him clearly through his close lids.  _John, I love you too. I do. But I am doing this for you. I need to be dead or else, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson and you will-_  Sherlock's thoughts are interrupted by the sensation of John's lips on his. Sherlock feels the soft pressure as well as the heavy weight of John's feelings being communicated through that kiss. John makes a move to pull away and Sherlock just gives in. He moves his arm and pulls John closer, deepening the kiss. Sherlock sticks his tongue into John's mouth and he doesn't refuse him. And the taste of John sends every nerve in Sherlock's body firing and he realizes that he's never felt so  _ **alive**_.

John laughs as they break apart and Sherlock blushes, embarrassed by his fervor. He sits up and looks down guiltily, apologetically, like a child expecting a reprimand.

"I knew you weren't dead," John says happily and hugs him. After which, he punches him lightly, but enough to hurt, on the shoulder. "That's for making me watch you die. What a horrible thing to do to a friend."

"A friend?" Sherlock raises an eyebrow and now it's John's turn to look sheepish.

"You weren't supposed to find out. I was supposed to be dead. Moriarty, he- He was going to have you, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade killed unless his people saw me jump. None of you will be safe if I'm alive."

"I think we'd all rather you live," John says in all seriousness.

"I suppose we'll just have to leave it to Mycroft to find those three gunmen. How did you figure it out though?" Sherlock looks at him, utterly perplexed.

"I'm not stupid, you know."

"I never thought that for a second."

John shakes his head and smiles, refusing to get into an argument about how many times Sherlock has called him an idiot.  _He'd probably say it was a term of endearment._

John glances at Sherlock and he looks at him impatiently, as if saying,  _'Well, get on with it.'_

He says it all in a breath. "I can touch dead things and bring them back to life don't ask me how I don't understand either if I touch them again they die I can only bring them back for a minute or else someone else dies." He takes a deep breath and continues before Sherlock can speak. "I touched your wrist so you could live again I planned on keeping you and I'm sorry for that person who would have had to take your place but you're far more important."

"But then nothing happened?" Sherlock offers.

"So I knew you were faking."

John waits for Sherlock to look at him differently, braces for it. John is a freak and his gift is a mysterious force. He thinks Sherlock might not want to be with him anymore, to be with a man whose existence defies the laws of science. An unsolved case. Sherlock hates those.

John waits and he waits and watches Sherlock's beautiful face. He is still processing. Then he stops.

"Okay. So you can touch dead things and bring them back to life. You give them sixty more seconds to live before touching them again which means they're dead forever. If you let them stay more than a second longer, someone else dies. How does that work? You didn't say?"

"It's a proximity thing."

"Right. So you touched me earlier, in the middle of a crowded street with the intention of bring me back to life for more than a minute-"

"Forever."

"Yes. All right. And you didn't care who would die because I was more important than anyone." Sherlock looks at John to check if he's gotten anything wrong. And John just nods and adds, "Because I love you."

Sherlock notices the careful ease with which John says it, declares it, confesses it. He stares at John, the knowledge that this man, this amazing, extraordinary man loves him, warms his insides and Sherlock feels every cell in his body hum.

John rubs the back of his neck and looks at the floor before saying, "You don't have to- I mean just because I said it.. uhm, I mean, I'm not expecting you to- uhm, you did tell me you were married to your work and I really should pay more attention so yeah I guess what I'm trying to say is you don't have to say it if you don't want to."

"John, if that kiss hasn't informed you of my feelings, then I guess you really are an idiot," Sherlock says fondly, smiles and hops off the slab in one fluid, elegant motion, wrapping the tiny sheet around his waist. He walks toward John, links his hands around his waist and pulls him close, eradicating every inch of distance between them. He lowers his head slowly and in those last few agonizing centimeters, he says, voice low and deep, "I love you, John Watson." And John feels the vibration those words make in Sherlock's chest as he utters them, feels his heartbeat and the pulsing of blood. Then he feels Sherlock's lips on his own and John focuses on that. He smiles as he continues to kiss the consulting detective who was in nothing more than a sheet, and concludes that this kiss and every single one after this will be his new mission.

And this time,  _ **this**_  time, John prays he doesn't run out of kisses.


End file.
